Of the Old World, and New
by Katsuhiro
Summary: High in the mountains a story is told. Of an untamed frontier, an old injustice. And reckonings.
1. Prologue - A Loaded Conversation

"You have to consider, if you can, how we got here."

The diner was empty, but for two men sitting in a booth. The jukebox played a lonely dirge: speakers warbling from the loose wires within. An old dame, lamenting an old world spoken of by the sun-faded posters that mouldered on peeling walls. There were no windows left, not anymore. Her tinny voice passed freely through to the whistling mountain air, lost to the wind. Creeping ivy scoured the walls, tugging great veins of plasterwork where it has been crudely stripped away.

As hideouts went it was a sorry place. Stray bottles line the counter top. Pop mostly. More than a few bottles of liquor, some filled with stale urine. More than some.

Any caps have long since been plucked clean.

Ellis was not a handsome man. His nose was broken, his beard patchy and skin flaky. Genetics had not been kind to him, and the years even less so. Heavy bags underscored rheumy eyes, that winced through curling smoke.

The listener sat across from him, listening without comment.

Ellis took another drag of his cigarette, hand quivering with a palsied shake.

"They were different times. No government then. No working roads, or bridges." A sucking drag. "Just the frontier. Caravans and outlaws. Raiders and victims. Might made right. Chaos man."

He stubbed the cigarette out on the table, giving a rueful shake of his head.

"Chaos."

There was a pistol set on the table between them. It was a heavy six shooter; worn, but lovingly kept. The grip was custom-made; cushioned leather wrinkled with age. The trigger guard has been remade, rendered in polished chrome. The barrel was stamped in an NCR press, but any engraving to that effect had been filed away with meticulous intent.

The barrel was not pointed at Ellis. But it wasn't pointed away either.

The revolver was many things. Above all, it was a reminder. Of the dynamic between them: the speaker, and the listener. Of how the conversation started.

Of how, quite probably, it would end.

Ellis ignored it as he leant back in the booth, huffing dragon's breath and scratching his cheek. His eyes were lost in memory.

"Unless you were there, you wouldn't understand."

The listener gently rested a hand on the revolver. A filtered voice growled.

"Tell me."


	2. Chapter 1 - A Nose for Trouble

" _Our story begins where the sand meets scrub, and from the scrub… mountains; where mist and fog wreath the peaks like ancient myth. Where and when, precisely? Doesn't matter. This was the New World, born from the ashes of the old. A wild and lonely place, known only as the Frontier. Beyond the ever-expanding grasp of the NCR, or the scalding bite of the Legion's lash. Untamed, forgotten in the gaps between cities and craters. Some once called it the Northern Commonwealth._

 _Truth be told, that didn't matter. This story could have been anywhere._

 _What matters is that it happened, and that I was there._

 _But then again, so were you."_

* * *

Erin Atwood was a young girl. Ten and three quarters, as she would say; bouncing on her tippy-toes to emphasise the seemingly logical connection between her height and her venerable age. The response was singular. The people would smile, and ruffle her dirty blonde hair affectionately.

She was a sweet kid, unaffected by the hardships of the Frontier. That was the intended effect, and it worked.

The Atwoods were simple folk. NCR stock. A father, two kids: a boy and girl; rolling out east across the wild frontier. The caravan itself was made up of a series of trundling carts, drawn by lumbering brahmin that huffed and stank in the beating sun. There were thirteen carts, all told, protected by a clutch of gunmen that strode on the edge of the procession; wary eyes sweeping the horizon.

Joe Atwood was the father. A good man, as I recall. Weathered from years on the road, and even more mileage from raring two wild kids in a wagon. His hair was thinning, but he had a strong jaw and an even stronger sense of morals. His wife Maureen had passed five seasons prior, lost to a fever that would not pass. That left his son, Brody: tough, stoic (very much the image of his father), who was just about old enough to help out by that point. That and young Erin: irredeemably cheerful in the face of the apocalypse.

Again, that was the intended effect. In truth, she had an eye for people, young Erin. A way of sizing them up, getting their measure real fast. Perhaps it was because of her earnest nature, that she was able to observe the falsehoods and treachery of less virtuous men. Oftentimes Joe and Brody would chuckle and ask her take on a proposed trade, or prospective deal. But behind that laughter lay a careful sincerity. For one so young, the girl's view was rooted in careful observation, and seldom wrong. Her words were frank, and often biting; for one so young. She missed nothing. A nervous tick, or a shifty glance; Erin absorbed it all.

One time a trader promised them land, a vast expanse of bountiful soil. The price seemed too good to be true. Even before they walked the land Erin said no, citing a hunch. The Atwoods passed, letting a rival seize the deal with grasping hands.

Word only came back to the Atwoods later. Blood worm, beneath the soil. Ravenous, with a thirst for human flesh. The world of a trader was a treacherous one, and Erin Atwood had a nose for trouble.

At the negotiating table, nobody watched the kid sitting silently in the corner. Sometimes Erin pretended to read a book, absorbed. Other times, she wore a sullen expression, and pretended to study the floor. In truth, she was always watching; analysing, assessing.

It was the small tells that gave them away. A nervous cough, or a fleeting glance in an unguarded moment whenever Joe and Brody were poring over a trade manifest.

More than once the Atwoods pulled a deal, citing a technicality but – in truth – basing it entirely on the girl's unwavering hunches. They had built a modest fortune on it, as they roved across the wastes, driving ever east. The Atwood Trading Company was not the largest of the itinerant trading companies, but it was known, respected. Others flocked to the van, keen to share in their success. Erin watched them all just as closely.

Of all the people in the caravan, it was the man with no nose that fascinated her the most.

Abe was a Ghoul. It seemed a cruel word, for such a kindly man. He was not so much flayed so much as broiled; his skin a leathery mass of burned tissue. As unsettling as his appearance, Abe had a weary sarcasm and disarming half-cocked grin that was all silver. He doted on young Erin, and – over the long arduous journey out of the Mojave – had become indispensable to the van. The ghoul had a friend in every town. When some guards left the van, choosing to settle down, Abe always knew where to ask. He had favours everywhere. Knew the terrain too.

Some said he was two hundred years old. Whispered that his name wasn't really Abraham Albuquerque Jones, but Erin didn't pay the gossips much heed. Not then, at any rate.

This was the Frontier after all. Out here, we choose who we want to be.

For better or worse.

Erin waved at Abe, who strode next to her father. The two men were deep in conversation, heads bowed. The ghoul shot her a wink, and resumed his discussion. Their hands waved, animated.

"What do you think they're talking about?" Erin asked her brother, in a conspiratorial whisper.

Brody shrugged expansively, keeping a careful grip on the reins. He sniffed.

"Route's pretty straightforward." Brody squinted as he looked up at the sky. "I know Dad was concerned with the timing. We've left it pretty late this season. It gets cold out here. Real cold."

"Colder than the desert at night?" Erin asked brightly. She was too young to remember their last expedition here.

Brody laughed.

"Colder still, kiddo. You best wrap up."

The terrain around the van was a wasteland, albeit of a different sort to the more blasted climes they knew back West. There was vegetation, for one: patchy scrub, and - as the winding paths climbed higher into the mountain - the very beginnings of the forests that teemed throughout the plunging valleys beyond. The road itself was well trodden, home to The Protectorate: a clutch of small towns that enjoyed a modicum of civilisation, connected by an old rail line.

By the new world's standards, this was a tranquil place, free of the privations of the wasteland beyond. Or so it seemed.

The caravans wheels squeaked ever on, as the light in the sky faded, and the shadows grew long. Erin shared a brief smile with Brody, before looking back over the horizon. She drank in the fresh mountain air, content. Everything was peaceful here.

In the distance, six riders were approaching, back-lit by the sinking sun.


	3. Chapter 2 - Border Control

" _Things are more civilised now. Back then you have to realise the position we were in. Raiders on all sides; rapin', thievin', killin'. Wild hill folk._

 _Monsters in the woods, and I'm not just talking about mangy den wolves neither._

 _The Protectorate was all we had. Our own private little oasis, high in the mountains._

 _That was a precious thing. Keeping it meant careful control of who came in, who went out. Resources were scarce. Even scarcer, when the winter rolled in._

 _That meant making tough decisions. Hard choices."_

" _Like killing women and children?"_

" _Look, I'm not saying we were perfect. But those were the times. Now you wanna hear this story or not?"_

* * *

It was sunset now, and the sky brimmed a bloody red. The caravan drew to a halt. A shout filled the air, and the guards hastened to the front.

The hill ahead was framed by the setting sun, the riders silhouetted as they approached.

If Abe had any hair left on his body, it would have stood on end. Every tactical bone in his body screamed ambush. The hill formed a slope; tight against the tree coated mountainside. The hill sloped down to their right, plunging into the valley below. Behind the caravan the trail offered scant cover, exposed as the path was back to the wasteland beyond.

It formed a natural point to intercept anyone looking to climb into the mountains proper.

Brody and Erin watched their father from afar, sensing the tension in the air. Joe held up a hand, eyes white in the gloom.

Abe appeared at Joe's side.

"Locals." The ghoul rasped, narrowed eyes never leaving the tree-lined horizon. "More than they're showin', too."

"They friendly?"

"My advice? Treat everything as hostile, 'til proven otherwise." The ghoul clapped the trader on his shoulder, then gave a wave to the rest of the guards. They fanned out, spreading out across the road, taking positions by the wagons and settling in. The guards were as varied and eclectic as the traders they protected. All manner of firearms: scoped rifles, improvised energy repeaters, homemade shotguns fused from scrap.

They nervously held their ground, watching the riders on the horizon.

"Nobody do anything stupid." Joe Atwood cautioned, stepping forward. He reached into his pocket and produced a chem light. He cracked it neatly, holding it aloft. It glowed a luminescent green in the gloom. Abe stood a few steps back, the rifle in his hands.

Joe held the glowing stick aloft, visible for all to see. He slowly walked forward, his other hand at his side, visibly unarmed.

Nobody moved.

Joe's eyes adjusted as he drew closer. The riders were on horseback. Long coats, wrapped for the weather with scarves. Dust goggles and wide brimmed hats robbed them of any distinction. The rifles they carried were military grade, well kept.

A hoarse voice broke the silence.

"Identify yourself."

Joe Atwood stopped where he was.

"Joe Atwood, Atwood Trading Company." He squinted up at the lead rider, beyond that neon glow. "We mean no trouble."

The rider drew closer. The horse was truly massive. Almost unnaturally so.

These were mountain beasts, bred in era where apex predators had scales that turned bullets and claws that turn power armour into tissue paper.

Joe Atwood had never seen a horse before, beyond mechanical approximations and the illustrations in Erin's books. Had thought them extinct.

As unsettling as the discovery was, Joe Atwood held his ground, the chem light low at his side.

The rider reached up and tugged down the dust cover obscuring his mouth. Then he pulled his goggles down around his neck, staring down at the trader. Physically he cut an imposing figure, well matched for the horse he rode in on.

The man had a strong aquiline nose, and a fulsome mustache that accentuated a set of piercing eyes. Even at a great distance, Erin felt her stomach knot.

The rider studied Joe Atwood from the boots up. Eventually, he spoke; his voice purring growl.

"You're in Protectorate territory. State your business."

Joe blinked. He had never heard of the Protectorate before.

"Uh… trading caravan. We've got food, gourds; ammunition and supplies too. Good caps, willing to pay in return for anything you folks might be looking to sell."

"Any doctors among you? Surgeons, robotocists?"

"No, just traders... Sir."

The rider sniffed, then spat on the ground. He sniffed, stroking his mustache as he looked back over Joe's caravan to the caravan beyond.

"There any more of you?"

"Don't answer that." Abe interjected. He stepped level with Joe. "Seems you got a whole lot of questions, and not many answers, friend."

The rider uttered mirthful chuckle.

"So we're friends now? Very well, Mr. Ghoul. Name's William Trask. Most folks round here call me Bill. Let me introduce to some of the boys here."

He beckoned over his shoulder. Three of the riders nursed their horses down the slope, drawing level with their leader. The rest stayed as they were, maintaining overwatch. The entire horizon was blocked by the riders now. They doffed hats and peeled away gas-masks and re-breathers.

They were universally male. Hardened frontiersmen, high on suspicion and hyped on adrenaline.

Abe knew the look. This could turn ugly, and quickly.

"So introductions." Bill Trask smirked and twisted in his saddle, jerking a thumb at the portly man beside him. He was a swarthy fellow, clad in a tattered poncho that stank of whiskey.

"This here's Poncho Morris." Then he pointed to young man with the beard next in low. "Harper Ellis."

Trask pointed at the youngest of them: a slight boy scarcely older than Brody. "Kid here's White Walter, but don't let his pasty looks fool you: he'll kill you soon as look at you."

The albino boy said nothing. He simply stared, unblinking. Even Abe, for his two hundred years plus on this blasted Earth, felt a shiver course through him.

Not at his appearance. Of anyone in the Midwest, appearances didn't bother Abe in the slightest.

It was those dead eyes. Killers eyes, if ever he'd seen 'em.

"Gentlemen." Abe tipped his cap, smiling outwardly.

The riders didn't respond. He sense the revulsion emanating from them. He and Joe exchanged a glance.

 _Better you do the talking_ , it said.

Joe Atwood cleared his throat.

"So you're met Abe. You know me. Our people here are good people. They've come a long way, and it's getting dark. Now if you'll be kind enough to escort us back to your town, we'll be no trouble, You have my word on that."

There was a pause. The horses stamped and snorted against the chill in the air.

Bill Trask mulled it over, studying them.

"Very well." Trask decided, eventually. "But the Ghoul stays here. People round here are awful skittish. Can't have 'em getting scared now."

Joe blinked. Abe glowered silently.

"You can't be serious." He balked."Nearest settlement is four day's ride. There's nowhere to go."

"They're the rules. You won't oblige?" There was an edge to Trask's voice now. "Then you're not welcome."

"You can't just leave us out here." Joe balked.

"Fair point." Bill Trask shrugged.

Then he smoothly drew his revolver, and shot Abe neatly through the head.

The ghoul folded without so much as a murmur.

Joe Atwood was frozen in shock.

The van guards bristled from their positions down on the hillside. The rest of the riders drew their guns in unison. Joe Atwood turned and yelled as hard his lungs could manage. A single warning, directed at the people who had placed their trust in him, who had followed him this far across the ruins of the old world.

Most of all, it was directed at his two children.

"Run!"

Gunfire erupted all around them. People were screaming. Laser bolts split the dark in a heated exchange. Men, women and children flopped to the ground. The air was alive with the zipping of bullets that smashed into the carts, thumping into Brahmin and traders alike. One stray shot burst a lantern, setting a cart ablaze. Soon the entire hillside was alight, and all was smoke and fire.

Brody was already moving, whipping the Brahmin, urging the poor beast onward. They took off at a gallop, blindly lurching off the road and down the slope. Trees swept by either side. The cart bounced and threatened to throw them from the cart entirely. Erin shrieked, bawling her eyes out as she clung on for dear life. Branches and twigs lashed at their faces. Hard rounds snapped through the air all around them, splitting the leaves and whickering into the trunks all around them.

They could hear the cries echoing from up the hill.

 _"Runner!"_

One of the Brahmin's legs twisted in the descent. Its front legs snapped, and the beast went down, hard. Its meaty neck met rock, and then the front tires of the cart caught up. There was a sickening crunch and the cart upended. The Atwood children were flung bodily from the saddle, screaming.

The cart all but exploded as it twisted and splintered its way down the hillside.

Trinkets and baubles of all shapes and sizes rained down across the slopes. The Atwood's entire life's work.

A bush saved Erin. It was not a pleasant bush. It was a scratchy, thorny thing. Such was the speed of her descent that the girl barely felt it as she ripped through it; hitting the ground in a tumbling roll, finally coming to a halt. Her clothing was frayed and torn, her hair an unruly tangle of leaves. A dozen cuts and bruises covered her arms and face, a murderous cross-hatch. But she was alive, and could move.

Erin Atwood was scared out of her wits. Utterly traumatised. But she was no quitter. She clawed onto her feet. She could hear more shouts, the sound of approaching hooves. Torchlight swept the treeline. The men had dismounted, were sweeping the hill on foot. Any resistance had long since petered out.

Night had fallen. Visibility was limited, this deep in the woods.

Erin scrambled on all fours, feeling her way through the dark. Ducking low every time a sweeping beam probed in her direction.

She all but tripped over Brody. He was hyperventilating, on his back; his spine at an odd angle.

"Can't move. Can't move." He mumbled, over and over; his tongue was swollen and thick. "You need to run E. Run now."

"I'm not leaving you!" Erin hissed, tugging at his jacket, prompting a muffled shriek as blood welled from his mouth.

She saw his leg. Clean white bone protruding from torn flesh.

Brody caught her eye. There was a calmness to him in that moment, that would stick with her the rest of her life.

"No choice. Stay safe. Go on now."

She could barely see him now. Her cheeks burned hot.

"Love you." Was all she could squeak.

"Love you too, E." His jaw quivered as he worked the words out of his broken body. _"Go."_

She turned and ran, vanishing out of sight.

Heavy boots crunched through the undergrowth.

The pale boy stared down at Brody Atwood, an eerie ghost-like figure in the dark.

"Found him." The boy said.

White Walter spoke softly, and yet his voice strangely carried.

There was a crashing sound as another rider finally caught up.

It was the bearded man, Ellis. He was younger then; stronger, more able bodied. Not yet ravaged by the booze and the jet that would follow. Even then he was out of breath. Walter for his part seemed entirely calm. He studied the open break with naked fascination.

"Fuck me." Ellis' breathing was ragged as he looked at the paralysed teen with disgust.

"What should we do with him?" The pale boy asked.

Ellis hawked and spat to one side.

"Put him out of his misery."

Brody Atwood could only helplessly stare as the pale boy drew his pistol, leveling it at his head.

Brody swallowed, making sure his voice was clear before he spoke.

"Whatever justice exists here is gonna find you." Brody managed. "And you'll _pay_."

At that the pale boy smiled, as he pulled his duster further open.

"Didn't you hear?" A sheriff's deputy badge glinted in the moonlight. "That's us."

The revolver sounded once, sending birds shivering from the canopy.

From the shadows of a bush deeper in the darkness, Erin Atwood watched through streaming eyes, hands clamped over her mouth in a silent scream.

* * *

Bill Trask overlooked the burning wreckage of the caravans. The flames crackled and spat. He smell Brahmin and human flesh cooking in equal measure.

The rest of his men descended from the hills, emerging from the treeline. Experienced marksmen all, many were wrapped in ghillie suits or heavy cloaks that blended with the terrain around them. Those caravans that could be quickly salvaged would be hauled back with them. The rest would be left as they were, for the buzzards and the beasts to pick over. There was no time for anything further.

Even with a full posse, this was no place to be hanging around at night.

Still, his job was done. The border was secure.

It was coming into the winter season. No further visitors would be tolerated.

Only so much room in the Protectorate.

Ellis and Pale Walter emerged from the undergrowth, saddling up.

"Get our runaway?"

Ellis nodded.

"He's done. There's a cart down there."

"Leave it." Trask shook his head. "We need to move."

Ellis raised an eyebrow at Trask.

"You really got that much of a problem with ghouls, Boss?"

At that Bill Trask grinned, offering a shrug.

"Seemed as good an excuse as any."

The deputies laughed, before departing.

Trask spared one last glance at the bodies littering the floor.

Joe Atwood lay face down in the dirt, his back stitched with a dozen holes. Inches from his still cooling body was the glowing chem light, casting the entire tableau in a sickly green glow. It would last long after the last of the flames had died out, fading to burning embers come the morning.

Bill Trask tipped his hat.

"Better you than me, Mr. Attwood. You have a good day now."

With that he turned his horse, and started up the mountain toward where the Protectorate and its sleepy civilisation lay in the mountains beyond.

Entirely oblivious of the chain of events set in motion.

And the war that was to come.


	4. Chapter 3 - BOB

" _Now I don't expect to have to tell someone like you just how bad it gets out there in the woods at night. Beyond the perimeter. In the dark. Happened to me twice in my lifetime.. Both times were touch and go. Ammo exhausted, lucky not to be ripped to pieces._

 _Razorbats are bad enough - they'll trim a man from the shoulders up. But there's bigger wildlife; nasties that gets displaced from the coastal regions, fleeing the rad-storms, the desert wastes. There's shelter here, food. The term free for all springs to mind._

 _I was armed, both times I got caught beyond the perimeter. Both times it nearly killed me._

 _How she managed three days? Shit, your guess is as good as mine."_

* * *

Erin waited for the sound of hooves to depart. Then she waited some more.

The temperature plummeted. She shivered, and not just from the cold.

Shock. She knew what it was, conceptually. Erin read. She read voraciously. Consuming everything from children's books to technical manuals, to the faded mould-ridden text on discarded packaging. Anything Daddy could find for her, she absorbed and retained. Storing it for future use, often supplying it without prompt or any particular context. Erin Atwood was a wellspring of useless information, as Brody so often reminded her.

Even so, she knew what shock was. Had seen it first hand, in their journey east.

Her feet rustled and crunched through the foliage towards the ruins of the cart as she crept, slowly.

Her eyes had adjusted to the dark now. She could see Brody's broken body against the tree.

He was gone. Dead. The word seemed leaden to her. Shocking in its finality. Her heart broke, and yet there was something disturbingly alien in that slumped figure broken by the tree. He seemed so still now. Like a mannequin, or a doll. Nothing like the fierce brother who had protected her growing up.

The Atwoods had travelled the wasteland far and wide. This was not the first time she had seen a corpse. But this was all too different.

She averted her eyes as she stepped past the body. That was not Brody. Not anymore.

The tears would flood later.

The slope was a ruin. The foliage was torn and littered with all manner of debris from the cart's chaotic descent. The cart itself lay split at the foot of the hill, all but bisected by a mighty tree. Air hissed through her teeth in frustration. Her pack was missing.

They each had a survival pack, in the case they got separated. A Bug-Out Bag, as Daddy called them. Our good friend BOB, as Brody called it. Erin had rolled her eyes whenever her father had reminded her to pack and repack it, but checking BOB became a ritual the Atwoods observed more strictly than any other. It was a necessary discipline, in their family's line of work.

Daddy was dead too. She could feel it in her bones, some instinctual sense. A certain hollowing. Only death awaited her, up that slope. But she couldn't survive on her wits alone.

Hands shaking, sniffling from the rivulets of snot that leaked from her nose, Erin clambered up the slope, picking up bits and pieces as she went. She picked up a broken bottle, sniffed at it. Recoiled when the powerful whiskey curled her nose.

Other items followed, as she ascended the slope. A swathing blanket, draped over a bush. She pulled it around her like a shawl, shivering as she did so. Then a loose water canteen, all but invisible by a shredded bush. It barely sloshed as she picked it up. It was heavy. Good.

She popped the cap, and took a greedy slug. Her mouth was drier than the Mojave, her tongue swollen and metallic. Adrenal high. When it faded, the myriad cuts and bruises covering her body would be all the keener felt. She kept moving.

Slowly, she scavenged what little she could.

Eventually she spied a knife in the dark, glinting in the moonlight. It was Brody's. A simple field hand's tool, useful for all manner of things on the frontier. It was not especially sharp. She grabbed it. She was a girl of ten, but knew she needed something to defend herself with.

Finally, hanging from a broken branch, BOB.

The rucksack was a no-nonsense green, intended for a kid her size. Rope, matches, enough tinned food to last three days. NCR military rations. She had no idea what to expect, but she knew they were there. Had packed and repacked them herself, under her Daddy's careful supervision.

Erin sniffled, her lip quivering, teeth chattering. She stopped herself. To dwell would let them down.

She pulled the rucksack over her back. Erin debated climbing further up the slope, but decided against it. She could hear the flames licking at the top of the hill. Could see the plume of smoke as the fire spread. The air stank of cooking meat.

Smell. Scent. Predators. Bad idea, E. Downhill, away. Away from the men with guns. There were many kinds of monster in the hills, and not all of them human.

She retreated down the slope, heading deeper into the valley.

Away from the crackling flames, and into the darkest night.

* * *

It was morning, and the sun rose over the lake.

The splitting axe met the wood with a hollow chunk, scraping as Edric lifted it from the scarred tree bole. His cabin was little more than a shack at the edge of the water: a sorry, ramshackle thing. A squat single storey structure, it had a lean-to that housed his workshop. The windmill that emerged from the roof and spun in the breeze granted it a certain folksy charm, albeit in a lopsided way.

Geiger counter had been clear: no storms due for at least a week.

The perimeter was a series of crudely assembled watch towers; skeletal things interspersed with a tall wooden wall fronted by sharpened stakes. Any gaps in the perimeter were closely watched by the turrets that huffed oily smoke and ticked in the hidden crevices in his shack's roof.

That was the start of it. In the event of a raid there were all manner of pulse mines, fragmentation grenades and hidden flamethrowers secreted in the woods around him. A necessary precaution, this far out on the frontier. The simplicity of the cabin belied the sophistication of its defences.

Edric was no carpenter. But it kept the wolves from the door, oftentimes literally; and gave him a place to ply his trade.

Edric was a machinist. He was many things, in his former life, but now he lived as something of a hermit, a tinkerer all but forgotten at the edge of the Protectorate. A broad-shouldered man in his late thirties, Edric had a scruffy beard shot with grey that spoke of seldom company and a healthy lack of vanity. His scalp was meticulously shaved. Some old habits die hard. His overalls were grease stained or scorched with soot.

Not that he cared. It was the work that kept him occupied.

They came to him from all over. A faulty Mr. Handy with a fitful actuator, a looted PIP Boy with a fizzling display. Broken goods were presented to him, and he took his payment in food or ammunition. Seldom caps. Too many caps meant too much attention, and as sparse and open as the Protectorate was, you never wanted attention. Raiders came in many forms.

Now he was midway through his morning routine. Basic calisthenics to start, then chopping wood for the fire. Preceding this had been the perimeter evaluation. That was always first. Of everything in his routine, this was the most important. So much so that he repeated it again prior to retiring to his workshop and commence the day's work.

Edric had already checked the snares for food, and was checking the charge on the harmonic resonators when he stopped.

It the old soldier's instincts that told him he was being watched. He stopped, suddenly very still.

Edric swallowed, clearing his throat as he stood tall, the fire-axe in his hands.

"You're going to want to do better than that, if you're hoping to sneak in here unannounced."

The machinist turned and looked at thick foliage, narrowed eyes hunting.

Nothing. And yet still that feeling.

He tried again.

"I warn you. Another step beyond the perimeter and the turrets will paint you across the forest floor. You've done well to get this far already."

There was a rustle.

A young girl emerged from a bush mere inches from the boundary of his turret's killzone, rising up like a peeking mole rat. She was right in front of him, and so silent he almost yelped in shock.

She was a tiny, ragged thing. Filthy, with a gaunt, stricken look that spoke of little sleep.

The fire-axe hit the ground with a soft thud as Edric blinked in disbelief.

Finally his mouth formed the words his mind was thinking.

"Oh. Shit."


End file.
